


Runaways

by lone



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, Road Trip
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-05 21:57:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lone/pseuds/lone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian gets Mickey the fuck out of Chicago and they run as far from Terry Milkovich as possible. Now, they're both traveling through middle America, trying to survive as they inch closer and closer to California where Ian believes all of their problems will disappear. </p><p>Ian and Mickey both know it's not going to be easy. </p><p>AU, Post 3x06.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Stars Never Shine This Bright in Chicago

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at a multi-chapter Ian x Mickey fic. Please leave a comment and let me know what you think! :)
> 
> Check out the fanmix: [Here](http://fuckmetomhardy.tumblr.com/post/46620537258/im-always-inspired-by-music-when-i-write-so-i)

* * *

 

It’s a mad dash for the side door exit of the convenience store when the alarm goes off and the shop shines bright in pale illume. Ian’s got a fistful of cash, Mickey, a tote bag full of food and goods. 

“Fuck! Run!” Mickey shouts, yanking down the redhead’s pantyhose mask so that it more properly covers his mouth. 

Ian and Mickey’s gym shoes grind short gravelly bursts against the pavement. A gasp catches at the back of Ian’s throat as he sprints down the dark alleyway, his blood pumping in his ears like a maddening bass drum solo. 

The late night air is warm with midsummer, humid and quiet as a grave. The store alarm cuts through the silence though like a scream. 

Mickey’s behind him, urging him further along, urging him to go quicker, even though Ian’s got him beat in both speed and endurance. Ian pockets the handful of cash inside of his backpocket and ups the speed, pounding against the pavement as fast as he can. He glances back every so often to make sure Mickey’s doing alright. 

It comes as no surprise when the police sirens begin, but it becomes sick inducing the way they blare - it’s a loud, obnoxious requiem. Ian nearly descends into a panic; he falters slightly, but only for a moment before continuing his pace. 

The boys spill out onto a main road that is thankfully empty and devoid of humans. They sprint across it quickly and continue onward through another alleyway. 

The sirens grow louder still. 

“Fuck!” Ian cries out, his nerves getting the better of him. His tired legs carry on anyways, and he casts a glance at Mickey. He wonders if Mickey is scared - he can’t see the other boy’s face through the pantyhose mask. 

A tall fence approaches, but it’s nothing they can’t handle. 

“This fucking sucks!” Ian laments as he scales the fence effortlessly. That ROTC training’s come in handy after all. “Why I let you talk me into this shit is beyond me.” 

“Shut the hell up, Gallagher, and catch!” Mickey zips the tote bag up and takes some considerable effort to toss the heavy bag over. 

Ian barely catches it. 

The sirens are very close now and Ian can even see the red and blue from the police car emergency lights flow over the nearby buildings.

“Mickey! Hurry the fuck up!” 

The dark haired boy doesn’t say anything, he only climbs the fence and then lands on his feet with a heavy thud. He snatches the tote away from Ian and pushes him forward with a stiff arm to the back. 

Ian doesn’t understand the life of a criminal - at least he doesn’t get the appeal of this terrifying adrenaline that pumps through him like a steel locomotive. 

Suddenly, Mickey’s hand is yanking him down by the collar of his jacket. “Get down!” 

Ian’s back slams against the nearby brick wall, the building biting red into him. Mickey shoves him sideways and presses them closely behind a garbage dumpster. 

“What the hell, Mickey?” Ian breathes out. Mickey swiftly covers the other boy’s mouth. 

That’s when Ian hears it, a vehicle passing by the end of the alleyway, slowly. Most definitely a cop car. A beam of light peers through the darkened alley, bathing the area in a harsh pale blue.  The concentrated light shines right past and over Mickey and Ian’s hiding spot behind the dumpster. 

Ian nearly shits himself. 

But, then he nearly weeps for joy when the car moves on without fanfare. 

Mickey’s hand is still over his mouth, salty and smelling like earth. The older boy doesn’t let go until he scolds, “You’re going to get us caught, firecrotch.” His tone is like hidden razorblades in Valentine’s Day chocolates.

\--

They hang low for a moment, creeping cautiously to the end of the alleyway. A few cop cars’ lights shimmer in the distance, but nothing close. 

They run until their lungs burn needles into their chests and their legs turn into elastic rubber. Ian gestures for the ditch beside the road they’re running along and then they flop down inside. The two boys hide in the tall grass of the ditch and steady their breathing. 

“Fuck!” Mickey cries out as he gasps for air, tugging his pantyhose mask over his nose, leaving the garment to cover his head and eyes. He gives Ian a side-long glance. “We can’t stay in this hillbilly town much longer. That’s the second time this week we’ve had a close call.” 

“It’s okay. We’ve got enough for the Greyhound anyways,” Ian says, lifting his mask as well, rolling over to his side to fetch the cash in his back pocket. He counts it one last time. “Two hundred bucks.”

“And we got four hundred saved from before.” 

“And the sixty bucks we lifted from the hardware store,” Ian adds, laughing out of relief. “Fuck, we’re really doing this.” 

Mickey scoffs, digging into his pockets for his cigarettes and his lighter. “You say that now after two months of being away from home? Haven’t we _been_ doing _this_?” Mickey lights the cigarette and puffs at the soft filter, closing his eyes in the sweet pleasure of having nicotine after that insane rush. 

Ian sighs, reaching over to take a hit from the cigarette. “No, I mean, we’re _really_ doing it now. We’re going to California.”

“And what the hell happens once we get there?” It’s a question Mickey’s asked before, but Ian’s never really had an answer - still doesn’t have one now. 

He lets silence fall around them for a short pause before offering a reply. Ian shifts, turning towards Mickey, barely able to make out his face in the dark. “Who cares. As long as we’re as far away from Terry as possible.” 

Mickey gives a noncommittal grunt before taking a long and needy puff from their cigarette. “I miss the city. I miss Chicago.” 

That’s the second time Ian’s ever heard Mickey admit to missing anything. The first was a veiled confession of missing Ian. He stores the truth in a secret place to peruse later. 

He sighs, turning away to look up at the stars in the clear Kansas sky. He’s never seen them so bright and visible; tiny balls of light hanging there, twinkling through the pollution and space junk. 

It feels like they’re floating. 

Ian looks over to Mickey, noticing that the other boy is staring at night sky as well. 

“The stars never shine this bright in Chicago.” 

\--

Their motel is on the edge of town and takes an hour to walk there. Ian’s fingers are weary and tired, fumbling for the keys. 

Their place is far from anything special. It’s the cheapest around and smells like hot piss and cigarette ashes. It’s small, though they have a full kitchen and a bed that fits them both and the bathroom ain’t so bad. The TV died a few days ago, but it only got FOX 2 and Mickey’s not much of a fan of shit like Glee or American Idol, so they never really used it anyhow. 

Mickey unloads their bag of stolen goods onto the bed and they sort it: things they want to keep to sell, things they absolutely need and things they’ll probably have to get rid of. 

They chat over a box of stolen Suzie-Q’s, the promise of tomorrow exciting and intoxicating. 

Ian’s dreamt of California. The sunny part where the people are beautiful and the rent is hella expensive. He tries not to think about the last part, though when Ian watches Mickey talk, and when Mickey offers him these pink diamond rare occasions where he opens up, Ian feels like they can really accomplish anything they set their minds to. He can do it as long as Mickey’s right there with him. 

They’d already gotten the hell out of Chicago with no intentions of ever going back. After surviving Missouri and now Kansas, there’s no doubt in Ian’s mind that they’ll be in sunny California by the end of the week, especially now that they have enough cash to get them there by bus. 

The night winds down and once the groceries are all stowed away and the rest of their stolen goods are tucked under the bed, the two of them hop in the shower.

Mickey typically doesn’t like to share the shower, but tonight he allows it. Ian washes his back, rubbing the cloth against the pale white skin, watching it turn red. Ian leans forward and places a soft, almost nonexistent kiss where his rough scrubbing left a mark. Mickey edges away, lathering his own washcloth up and tucking in between his legs to clean his balls. 

A depressing reminder shocks through Ian when the desire to fuck Mickey slithers its way into his brain. He places another kiss, testing the waters as he wraps his arms around Mickey and gently pulls him close. 

“Gallagher...,” Mickey says softly, but a warning nonetheless. He stills under Ian’s touch. 

“Can I just hold you?” Ian asks, not quite letting go yet, though he loosens his grip. 

Mickey stands still for a breath of a pause, but then elbows Ian in the stomach. “Fuck off.” 

The tone is so cold Ian can almost feel his heart freeze. 

The other boy quickly finishes up washing his body without another word and ducks out of the shower, leaving Ian all by himself under the now cooling water. Ian watches Mickey leave until the bathroom door is shut completely. 

Ian sighs and jerks off to get it over with because he knows that he won’t get any tonight.

It’s nothing new. 

Mickey and Ian haven’t had sex for months now. Not since Terry made Mickey fuck a prostitute right in front of Ian. Mickey’s not been quite the same since; he always ducks away when Ian tries to touch him and the closest thing they’ve gotten to any real sex was the time last week when they got wasted and Mickey let Ian touch his cock for a few seconds. 

As frustrating as it may be, Ian’s willing to wait until Mickey’s ready to start having sex again. He only wishes he could figure out what Mickey needs to heal from an ordeal like the one Terry put him through. 

Mickey’s not much of a talker, at least when it comes to feelings and emotions and shit. He leaves that up to Ian. It makes it ten times more difficult to crack through the boy’s tough shell. Ian had made tremendous progress before, but now they’re back where they started, but at least Ian is convinced that Mickey doesn’t hate him - quite far from hating him actually. 

So, for now, Ian does what he can by giving Mickey time. He’ll wait as long as it takes. 

\--

Once he’s all cleaned and then dried, Ian slithers into their bed. Mickey’s pretending to be asleep, Ian can always tell. It’s his breathing that reveals the phony from the legit. 

Ian doesn’t try to cuddle, nor does he face Mickey. He turns his back to him and closes his eyes. 

A tiny smile curls up on his face when he feels Mickey’s face bury into his back and then the boy’s arms around his waist. Ian doesn’t reach down to cup his hand over Mickey’s, he just lays there and drifts off to sleep, Mickey’s soft snoring against his back and the boy’s warm hands around him.


	2. Anywhere But Here

Ian dreams of kissing Mickey. Sometimes he dreams of fucking him too, but it’s almost always of kissing him. They’ve only kissed a few times and each time they did it seemed as if Mickey got more and more into the idea of it all - liked it even.

Of course, that all ended after Terry caught them together. 

That “event” hangs over them like a dark storm cloud. Mickey seems content on walking through the storm alone while Ian chases after him from behind with an umbrella big enough for two. This entire trip wasn’t incepted to save Ian, it was all for Mickey. Ian often wonders if it’ll ever pay off. 

He’s been remembering his dreams a lot more frequently lately. Most of them are of Mickey, but often are of his family, especially his brother Lip. The dreams are all typically mundane and at times heartbreakingly domestic, but they offer an escape of sorts - every dream makes Ian both happy _and_ sad, which somehow that feels _just_ right. 

Today he dreamed of Fiona. Nothing extravagant or weird. She’d just come in from work and asked him for all of his dirty laundry - asked if he’d eaten anything. Typical Fiona really. It makes him incredibly sad, because not only does he miss his older sister, who has been more of a mother to him than Monica (his real mother) could ever be, he misses the luxury and comfort of being home. 

Funny, thinking about the Gallagher home as something luxurious. He doesn’t realize until now just how good he had it. Sure times got rough, but he never went hungry and he always knew that at least one Gallagher would be home to greet him.

At least now he has Mickey. 

\-- 

The front door slamming closed jerks Ian from his deep slumber like the loud bang of a gong, sending him shooting up in a wild, confused stupor. Tiny blue blades of light peer through the cracks of the closed window blinds, showing the signs of early morning. 

Mickey’s at the door, turning the lock with a loud ‘clunk’. He kicks his shoes off beside the doorway, two plastic bags dangling from his fingers. 

The redhead squints at his watch. “Jesus, it’s 8 in the morning Mickey! Could you be any louder?” Ian groans, sinking back in his bed’s warm embrace. 

“I got us some more toilet paper since you said you hated the shit they have here.” 

Ian moans childishly, his eyes shutting as he mutters, “It’s like fucking sandpaper.” 

“Yeah, well, I got the expensive shit. The one with the fat cartoon bear on the front.” 

Mickey’s light footfalls thump softly across the carpet as he strides over to the kitchen. Ian cracks an eyelid open and watches the boy unload the bag and put things away. He likes to watch Mickey like this and imagine that they are in California, in their own apartment with legit jobs and money. 

Ian grins at the fantasy and clears his throat. “Where’d you go?” 

It’s typical for Mickey to not respond right away, so Ian waits patiently, opting to close his eyes again until he hears the boy’s distinctive voice return. The A/C unit above the bed rumbles, filling the room with a soft unobtrusive noise that almost lulls Ian back to sleep. 

“Couldn’t sleep, so I went out for a jog. Decided to hit up the drug store for a few things on the way back.” Mickey opens the refrigerator and fetches a glass bottle of beer. He flops down into the uncomfortable chair at the dining table. He twists open the ice cold beverage and takes a thick gulp. 

Gallagher stretches his arms out until his knuckles tap against the headboard. “Is it already hot out there?” 

Mickey nods, absently staring off into the carpet, presumably lost in that crazy jungle of a mind. He’s been like this a lot lately; Ian only wishes Mickey would talk more. There’s a shade of obvious gloom over his features that Ian takes in. It makes Ian want to climb out of the bed and snatch him up into an embrace and hold him until it’s all out. Ian reckons Mickey’s never had a good and proper cry. 

“Come to bed, Mickey,” Ian pleads softly, flipping open the bedding. He shimmies over to the other side of the mattress, a small grin on his lips. 

Cool, ice blue eyes flicker in Ian’s direction, and then a ghost of a grin flashes across Milkovich’s full lips before he presses them against the beer bottle. He takes another hearty gulp, belches and lifts himself up from the chair with a groan.

“We gotta sell some shit today, so we shouldn’t sleep too late,” Mickey says, stripping off his black tank top, revealing his naked top half. The muscles in his chest and arms have gotten a bit smaller, Ian notices. He’s not been eating all that much either. 

“Yeah. I’ll set an alarm for noon.” 

Mickey grunts in affirmation as he walks over to the nightstand and sets his half finished beer down on the top surface. He opens the drawer, pulls out the thick bible inside and opens it, revealing where they’d cut out a chunk of the book to hide their money in. He places two twenties inside and closes the volume. Ian doesn’t ask where he’d gotten the money because he has a feeling Mickey wouldn’t tell him anyways. 

Milkovich tucks himself under the blanket that Ian capes over the two of them and they both give a long tired sigh against the cool bedsheets. 

“Hey,” Ian whispers, laying on his side to stare at his friend. 

Mickey doesn’t look back, just fixes his gaze at the ceiling. “What?” 

“You okay?” Ian’s voice is so light and sweet even he finds himself annoyed by the sound of it. Nonetheless, he waits for Mickey to entertain the question. 

The older boy finally glances at Ian, a lightning fast consideration in his eyes, as if he could really tell Ian right now that everything’s _not_ okay. But of course he says nothing, which is what Ian expects. 

He’ll keep asking though, because one day Mickey’s luggage will be too full to carry around all by himself. 

\--

Mickey’s an amazing street salesman. Ian just sits back and lets Mickey do all the talking because surprisingly enough Milkovich has better people skills than Ian when it comes to the streets. Mickey manages to sell off most of the shit they’d stolen. Made themselves another two-hundred and fifty dollars in one day. Not half bad, honestly. 

The extra money buys them cigarettes and liquor, because obviously a celebration is in order.

There’s a place they’d found once right beside a slow moving creek. It’s a nice, perfectly secluded nook with an old tree that has an easily climbable low hanging branch. They often run to this hidden place after a robbery or two, opting to hang low instead of returning to their motel. 

They return here tonight because this may be their last night in this hillbilly town. Although Ian’s more than glad to see the place go, in some ways it’s an oddly forlorn affair. 

Ian is crouching over the small fire he managed to start beside the creek, just as the sun is setting and the sky is kissed with a honey brown color. He never really cared before about the beauty around him until they reached Kansas. He looks over to the other beauty near him, Mickey, who’s complaining about gun control while stabbing the ground with his empty beer bottle before tossing the glass into the slow moving water. 

“I mean, what the hell is it with these liberal fucks that think the solution is taking guns away?”

Ian chuckles, standing back to marvel at the fire he started, tossing in a few more pieces of the cardboard they found on the way here. 

“I’m one of those liberal fucks by the way.” 

Mickey scoffs, striding over to grab another beer. He’s loose and wobbly, clearly already having knocked back a few beers. 

“You mean to tell me you think that guns are the problem?” 

Ian shrugs, “Well, yeah, they’re a huge factor, right?”

Mickey laughs, slightly shocked it seems. It makes Ian’s cheeks blush with amusement. “So, you think that if you take guns away, there won’t be anymore crime?” 

The redhead dusts his hands on his thighs and walks over to Mickey with a shithead grin on his small, pink lips. He snatches the beer from Mickey’s hands and takes a big gulp. He rubs his mouth clean with his hairy forearm and pushes the bottle back into Mickey’s chest. “Nah, but maybe if we get rid of fucks like you then we’d be better off.” 

“Fucks like me, huh?” The way Mickey says it, it sounds and feels like the old, playful Mickey for a second. Ian doesn’t stare at him as long as he might have before, even though he'd really like to. 

The younger boy snatches up a beer for himself and then plops down next to the open fire, letting the orange flames color his face and warm his arms as night slowly creeps on them. 

“Besides, you’re not a legal gun owner. Gun laws don’t even affect you,” Ian adds much later, even after the subject has changed. 

Mickey’s joined him at the fire, sitting across from the boy. He chews on his bottom lip and his shoulders hitch with laughter. “Well, for whenever I plan to own one legally.” 

“A Milkovich doing something legal? That’ll be the day!” 

“Hey, don’t act like the Gallaghers are all regal and do-gooders. You’re just as fucked up as we are.” 

Ian doesn’t have the heart to tell him how bloody wrong he is. He just smiles and is too pleased to find the words to describe the joy he feels when Mickey smiles back too. 

\--

They walk back with pockets full of cash, bellies full of beer and their heads full of dizzying intoxication. Ian’s red faced, laughing and for the first time in a while Mickey is too. 

It’s dark, but thankfully not too late just yet. Their motel appears as the lone beacon of light in the outreaching grassy fields. The motel’s sign towers over them, large letters lit up, flickering on and off, though the ‘T’ in ‘Motel’ stays dark. 

Just as they come up on the parking lot entrance, the manager Tobias emerges from his office, zipping his fly. He’s a stout man with large round eyeglasses and a beer gut. He’s got a baby face that looks just plain gross with his five o’clock shadow and comb over. The man sidesteps as the motel maid comes from behind him out of the office doorway. The woman is young, but only seems to speak Spanish. Mickey’s had a bit of spat with her regarding boundaries because she’s often rearranged their things. She’s retying her long, beautiful auburn hair into a quick, haphazard bun. When she spots them, her eyes widen and her cheeks flush pink. 

It’s all too obvious what the two have been up to. 

Mickey let’s out a nasty laugh and tosses a thumbs up in the air at them both. “Hope the head was good, Tobias!” 

The embarrassment is clear and potent on the maid’s face that even Ian can feel it. She charges away to her room at the end of the building, slamming her door shut. 

“Mickey, what the hell?” Ian socks the other boy in his arm, which he gets returned to him tenfold.

Ian doesn’t bother looking back at the manager and offering an apology - he’s much too embarrassed to face the man. 

His arm is still throbbing where Mickey hit him when they’re back in their room and the door is locked behind them. He kind of likes the pain though, because it reminds him of the times he and Mickey rough housed. Those sessions almost always ended in sex. 

Mickey tosses their leftover beer bottles onto the bed and swivels around, kicking his shoes off at the door. 

“Don’t you _ever_!” Mickey says abruptly, charging towards Ian until the other boy’s back slams against the door. “Don’t you ever hit me in front of other people again. I’m not your bitch!” 

Ian’s breathless with a brief bout of fear, but then he sees something flicker across Mickey’s eyes and then a slow moving smile tugs at the edges of the thug’s lips. Mickey breaks off into heavy laughter, laughing even harder when Ian’s face finally loosens up and he lets out the breath he’d been holding. 

“You thought I was serious?” Mickey’s barely audible, his chuckles fogging his words. 

“Fuck off,” Ian grunts, laughing. 

“Fuck off, eh?” Mickey cocks his head to the side and moves forward, drunk and silly. 

He shifts forward against Ian and presses their crotches together, rocking his hips while a sneaky hand snakes under Ian’s shirt. 

Ian sighs into the warm touch, his eyes drooping to Mickey’s lips. 

This blissfully feels like the old Mickey, but they’ve been here a million times before. 

Mickey gets like this when he’s drunk: He’s super promiscuous and flirty, but when it comes down to actually doing the deed, he breaks down. Gallagher doesn’t want to deal with all of that tonight. 

Ian snatches Mickey’s hands away before things get any heavier. 

“What? You don’t wanna-” 

“No... not when you’re like this,” Ian replies slowly, steading his breathing as he battles with the mind-numbing lust seizing him. “You’re not ready.” 

“N-not ready? What the hell are you on about, Gallagher?”

Ian bites his bottom lip and squeezes gently at Mickey’s wrists. Maybe, just _maybe_ Mickey’ll talk this time? 

“You know what I mean. You’re always up for it when you’re drunk, but then... then you remember everything...”

Mickey seems morose for a second, but then blindingly angry. The change of emotion is so fast it’s scary. “Fuck you!” He yanks his hands from Ian and pushes the boy out of the way before slipping out of the door and into the Kansas night. 

“Mickey!” Ian cries out, watching as he sprints across the well lit parking lot. If he doesn’t catch him now, he’ll never find Mickey in the darkness of the Kansas roads. 

He quickly locks their motel room and runs after Mickey as fast as he can. 

It’s unsurprising that Mickey runs away. It’s how Mickey deals with things, by being angry and violent - running away when things get too rough. When Ian really thinks about it, he has no real idea how fucked up Mickey may really be. 

Ian spots his silhouette in the dark and calls after the boy again. Ian’s much faster than Mickey, and thankfully he’s not as drunk. He catches him in no time, grabbing him by the waist, wrapping him into a tight grip from behind. 

“Mickey, stop it!” Ian pleads.

“Get the fuck off me!” 

“I said quit it!”  

Ian regrettably slams Mickey to the ground harder than he means to. He hears all of the air in Mickey’s lungs huff out in one go from the fall. Nonetheless, Ian sits on top of him, binding the boy’s arms to the ground, pressing them down into the dirt. 

Ian’s on top, his chest heaving and holding still as Mickey tries to break free, thrashing like a wild animal. Milkovich is trying to gasp for air, but it’s clearly not working. 

“Mickey, stop,” Ian commands, pushing down even harder. “Stop moving and it’ll get better.” 

Either he listens, or he’s grown too tired; either way, Mickey stops, staring up at Ian with fury burning red in his eyes as he continues to try breathing. 

“Deep breaths.” 

When Ian was little and he played football, he’d gotten the wind knocked out of him a few times or more; he knows how to get it pass quickly. 

Mickey takes his advice. Ian loosens his grip, but doesn’t lift himself off just yet. They sit there in the quiet night, only the high, throbbing noise of cicadas surrounding them.

“I didn’t want to have to do that,” Ian says after he’s caught his breath. 

“You fucker.” Mickey strains to say, the little voice sounding like the preamble to a cough. Through the darkness Ian can see Mickey’s face twist, and then his bottom lip quiver. Ian doesn’t realize what’s really happening until he feels Mickey’s body hitching and then the tale-tell muted sobs that hesitantly escape the boy’s mouth. His face goes wet with the angry tears bubbling up on his eyelids, the droplets breaking and streaming down his cheeks, shiny in the ample moonlight. 

Ian lets him go. 

“Mickey...,” Ian says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. 

Milkovich covers his own face with his hands and rides the sobs, trying to hold them in as much as possible, but it proves difficult. 

Ian lays down by his side, ignoring the rocks biting tiny red marks into his shoulder and presses his lips to Mickey’s exposed skin on his arm. “Mickey, it’s okay. It’s okay.” 

It catches Ian off guard, but he’s so insanely happy for the moment that he starts crying too, because Mickey moves and buries his face into Ian’s chest and wraps his arms around his lover like a child clings to its mother. 

Ian’s shocked, unable to react for a moment. He simply closes them into a hug and presses his face into Mickey’s hair. The sweet smell of tobacco lingers there and cheap soap and beer. He holds Mickey even tighter and squeezes his own tears away as Mickey lets his own flow.

He’s going to cherish this moment because he knows that Mickey will either forget it by tomorrow or will pretend it never happened. 

This is the Mickey that Ian _needs_ to see, and it’s most definitely the version that Mickey needs as well. 

\--

They wake up hours later covered in dirt and stiff with hangovers, just as the sun peeks its head over the horizon. Mickey doesn’t say a word and Ian never brings it up, but he can tell by the cold look he gets from the other teenager that the night hasn’t been forgotten. 

Back home, they shower separately. Ian’s not surprised, but it hurts him nonetheless. 

“We should start packing,” Mickey mutters when Ian emerges from the shower with nothing but a towel on. 

 “Mm.” 

\--

After their bags are packed and they’ve had a nap, Mickey’s sour mood seems to subside, so Ian decides to make a quick brunch meal with the last of their food. They still have a whole carton of eggs left and a loaf of bread, so Ian makes french toast, which is Mickey’s favorite. Mickey’s never told him straight away, but Ian can just tell because that’s all he ever asks for. 

By 1 p.m. they’re eating and having casual conversation about guns and the military. 

“I still think about enlisting sometimes,” Ian says, stabbing a strip of french toast and sliding it around in the syrup on his plate. 

“But?”

Ian looks up from his plate at Mickey who’s guzzling down the last bit of orange juice, straight from the carton. 

“Jesus! You couldn’t save me some?” Ian complains, grinning as he steals a rogue morsel of french toast from Mickey’s plate.

“Aye! That was mine, you shithead!” Mickey’s glaring daggers at him, but it’s playful and it makes Ian giggle before stuffing the stolen piece into his mouth. 

“Anyways. I think about enlisting, _but_ it’s just not the right time.” 

The sentence feels awfully like the wrong thing to say, and the vibe it leaves in its wake weighs the room down like a big, wet blanket. 

“So, what. You’re holding back from getting blown up in Afghanistan because of me?” Mickey’s still, his mouth parted, waiting for the ‘truth’ that he’s been trying to force Ian to say since they’d started this trip. 

“No. That’s not why. I just... I don’t want to anymore.” 

“What happened to all of that serving your country bullshit? Suddenly changed your mind?” 

Ian sighs, shaking his head. “I just don’t want to get shot at and die for a shit country right now, okay?” 

Mickey presses his lips into a fine line and sucks on his front teeth. “Yeah, well, you’d probably end up committing suicide before anyone got to you, statistically.” Mickey raises up from the table and pulls out a pack of smokes. 

“Thanks,” Ian grumbles sarcastically, finishing up his meal. 

\--

Saying goodbye to their motel room feels strange. This is the first space that they’d claimed as their own. Their own little shitty motel room in the middle of nowhere. It’s a surreal sensation that’s both exciting and sobering all at once. 

All of the sex they could have had makes saying goodbye feel like a wasted opportunity fully realized, like seeing the winning lottery number that you changed your mind on. Ian tries not to lament about it too much. 

“Can you believe this is it?” Ian says, moving backwards from the door to get a wide shot of the motel. 

Mickey shrugs and locks the place down. 

“I mean, it was kinda like our own place, you know? Now we’re moving on.”

“Whatever,” Mickey mutters as they carry their bags towards the office. 

Mickey’s never really been all that sentimental. 

Tobias is waiting for them at his desk, switching channels on the the hanging TV in the corner of the room. He stops on an old episode of Friends and tosses the remote controller onto the desk with a loud, plasticy clank. 

The office is stuffy and hot and smells like cigarettes and Brut aftershave. It churns and twists in Ian’s stomach. He holds his breath and does as little breathing as possible.

“Hey there... _Kyle and Tim_ ,” Tobia recites their fake names with a shade of suspicion. “What can I do you for?” The man’s dark eyes glance down at the bags in their hands. 

“Checking out today,” Mickey says, dropping his heavy bag to the floor before striding over to the desk. He sets the key down. 

Tobias picks the key up and turns the silver metal over in his hand, “You got the hundred bucks you owe?” The man’s eyes scan both of them, something strange working behind the gaze. Ian has a bad feeling about this, but hasn’t a clue what to do about it, 

“Of course we got your stinkin’ hundred dollars,” Mickey says, annoyed. “Ian, give the cash so we can go.” 

Ian nods and fetches the envelope from inside his bag. 

“That maid you’re fucking went through our things, you know,” Mickey adds, crossing his arms. “Sure she’s probably stolen some of our shit too. So we really should be paying less.” 

“Shut up,” Ian spits, opening the envelope, ignoring Mickey’s glare burning into the side of his face. He fingers out two 50 dollar bills and places them on the table. 

“Alright, here’s what’s really going to happen,” Tobias says, revealing a long shotgun, cocking it and then pointing it at the two boys. “The two of you are going to see down right there and we’re going to renegotiate payment.” 

Ian nearly drops the envelope full of money when his hands fly up in the air. 

“What the fuck?” Mickey shouts, stepping backwards. 

“Don’t fucking move!” Tobias cries out, points with the barrel of his gun towards the two chairs situated in front of his desk. “Sit down and shut the hell up.” 

“Seriously, man, what the hell did w-” 

“MICKEY! Don’t do anything _stupid_ ,” Ian scolds, casting a glance down at the boy’s side pocket, making sure to emphasize what he means by ‘stupid’. 

With their hands still raised in the air, Ian and Mickey plop down into their seats. Ian’s heart is thumping something insane in his chest like a gorilla pounding at him. He’s breathless with fear, unsure what this man wants and unsure if Mickey will let things go without pulling out his gun. 

“Now,” Tobias begins, letting go of his shotgun with his right hand. He puffs at his cigarette before replacing it back in the ashtray. “There’s a peculiar story going around. I’m sure you know it.” 

He pauses as if expecting them to respond. 

“You know, I had a feeling it was you two little shits going around stealing shit from the shops downtown. That’s why I had our maid check.”

“You mother _fucker_!” Mickey bellows. Ian kicks him, and then bites his bottom lip. 

“What are you talking about, man?” 

“Don’t play coy. They have you stupid assholes on camera. Plastered all over the local news! You can’t see your faces, but as soon as I saw those clothes, I knew I’d seen ‘em before.” 

Ian takes a deep breath, “What do you want?” 

Tobias keeps his eyes fixed on Mickey, begging for the boy to try something. 

“I want five hundred dollars.” 

“Fuck no!” Mickey yells. 

“We can’t do that! We don’t have it!” Ian adds. 

Tobias’ eyes dart up to the white envelope hanging on Ian’s fingertips and his chuckles. “Open that and we’ll see.” 

Ian feels his heart drop down into his chair and suddenly he’s grey and bloodless. There’s nothing really to do but follow the man’s orders, especially with a shotgun pointing in your face. He tosses the envelope onto the desk and the bills fan out across the wooden surface. 

“Pick it up. Count it.” 

“Fuck!” Ian mutters while he reaches forward and lays the bills out flat. He counts each bill, adding them up out loud, each number feeling like a hammer to the groin. 

“So, how much is that?” There’s laughter lacing Tobias' voice like a cheek asshole who knows he just won an arguement, but wants to savor the moment where you admit he won. 

“Seven...,” Ian mumbles, his hands shaking, feeling Mickey starting to squirm in his seat. 

“Seven what?” 

“Seven hundred.” 

“Wow! Seven hundred dollars! And I thought you said you didn’t have enough?” Tobias chuckles, shaking his head as though the situation is completely silly and frivolous. 

“We need this money,” Ian pleads, staring the man in his eyes. “We need it for our Greyhound bus to California. Without it, we’ll be homeless.” 

“I bet those shopkeepers needed their money too, but you chose to come into _my_ town to rob and steal. Take five hundred of that and stack it on top of the hundred you just gave me.” 

“That’s our fucking money you piece of shit!” Mickey stands up, his arms down at his waist now. 

“Watch it!” 

“Mickey, stop!” Ian stands in front of him, outstretching his arms. 

“He’s going to take our fucking money! He can’t do this!” 

Tobias the manager shifts in his seat, and gestures to something behind his desk. “Back here I have a button that automatically alerts the police of an emergency. They’ll be here before you can run across that field. All I gotta do is push it and you lose _all_ of your money, _and_ your freedom.” 

Ian and Mickey both freeze, staring down at the button they can’t see, though they’re both not willing to risk calling the man’s bluff. 

“Now take the rest of your money and never bring your sorry asses here ever again!” 

Ian nods, reaching forward to tuck two hundred dollars back into the envelope and shove back into his bag. Mickey doesn’t move, stands still as a statue, rage filling him up and leaving him motionless. Ian’s scared, having never seen the boy so angry in his life. Tobias aims the shotgun more surely. 

“You wanna try it boy?” 

Mickey stares down the barrel, too angry to fear death it seems. 

“ _Mickey_ , let’s go! This is not worth dying over!” Ian begs breathlessly. He’s almost driven to tears from the sheer panic coursing through him. 

“You won’t get away with this you bastard. I swear it.” Mickey grinds out through his teeth. He turns and yanks his bags up from the floor. 

Tobias chuckles, and leans back in his chair. “Nice doing business with ya.” 

It’s much like watching a car accident, or watching someone get shot. It’s the sort of things that you never expect to see in real life - they’re so unexpected that your brain can barely comprehend that it is _actually_ happening. 

When Mickey yanks his pistol out, Ian’s brain shuts down and all he knows is to leap as far to the ground as far as he can and take Mickey with him. 

The ear drum numbing blast of the shotgun shocks Ian’s ears and suddenly he can’t hear anything but Mickey’s shouting and the gunshots from his pistol. Ian can do nothing but yank Mickey up from the ground and pull them both out of Tobias’ blast range. Another shot fires off and cuts a sizeable hole right through the adjacent wall. 

All there is to know from here on out is: Get the fuck out!

Ian’s never ran faster in his life. He’s sure Mickey hasn’t either. They shoot off into the fields and their feet dig up the dirt in their wake, sending patches of earth flying behind each step. They don’t check back to see if Tobias has followed them. 

They run and run until they’re out of breath and collapse to the ground after what feels like miles. 

“That bastard,” Mickey says, coughing and gasping for air in the dry heat. “He’s gonna remember today.” The boy starts laughing, reaching into his pocket. “I got two hundred back! Snatched it right off that faggot’s desk right before I shot em.” 

Ian’s not got enough time to actually marvel and rejoice at the four 50s in Mickey’s sweat and dirt covered hand; he’s too busy being absolutely terrified by the last bit of news. 

“Mickey! You _shot_ him?” 

Milkovich’s laughing, coughing and pounding his fists against the ground in celebration. “Fuck yes! Right in the fucking arm. Was aiming for his chest, but then you pulled me away.” 

The world goes still. Any air left inside Ian’s lungs is long gone at this point because he’s barely able to scream, “Oh my God!” 

“What? He was going to steal almost all of our cash!” 

“But now he’s going to definitely call the cops and they’re going to come looking for us! Now we can’t go to the fucking Greyhound because the cops will be waiting for us,” Ian manages. He stands up on wobbly legs and darts his gaze in all directions, searching for any sign of police.

“Wait, how would they know where to find us?” 

“I fucking told him we needed the money for the Greyhound, _remember_?” Ian laments, grabbing at the stubby ends of his short red hair. 

“Fuck...,” Mickey says, realizing their predicament. “Whatever, that bastard’s going down too if we get caught.” 

“No. We have to get out of here. Get up. We gotta keep moving.” Ian reaches down and yanks Mickey up to his feet. 

The boys break out into another full on sprint, aiming for anywhere but here. 

It’s strange, being on the run like this feels good, or maybe it’s because Mickey’s smiling at him and laughing that Ian forces himself to feel the same thrill. 


	3. Invisible

Ian’s always been invisible. With large personalities like his sister Fiona and especially his brother Lip, he somehow always fell by the wayside. His entire life he’s suffered the fated hand-me-down clothes from his older brother. He’d never owned a new pair of jeans, or a new shirt or shoes until he started working at the Kash and Grab, back when Kash would buy him things. Such is the life of a middle child. 

Material things weren’t the only hand-me-downs. Ian received what he considered hand-me-down love and affection, which is to say he never received nearly enough of it.

Whenever Monica wasn’t hopped up on meds and decided to try at being a real mom, Lip and Fiona always got her love first and foremost. If one of them weren’t around, _then_ she’d ask Ian if he wanted to play or if he needed help with his homework. Once Debbie and Carl were born, there just wasn’t enough love to go around.

This even rolled over to the way Fiona interacted with him, though bless her, she probably didn’t mean it. Debbie, Carl, and Liam were the children, Lip and Ian were pretty much adults. There’s no time to give a shit about what Ian’s going through. 

He’d gotten so used to being second choice that he gets pissed off at himself for being okay with that. 

But of course, it’s not _always_ okay.

\--

_Ian waited for Mickey at their usual spot in the old abandoned warehouse off of Halsted road. He was smoking a cigarette - he’d been trying to kick the habit but today warranted a relapse. The hard concrete was uncomfortable and painful against his bottom; his back was plastered against a crumbling pillar and he let out a shivering sigh. The old building smelled like rusty metal and the soft odor of city rain. For it being the middle of May, Chicago was oddly cold and rainy. He’d only worn a grey flannel over his t-shirt, so Ian sat with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms crossed in a bundle to keep the heat in._

_His gaze would drop every now and then to the bag laying at his feet, stuffed with everything he needed: a few days change of clothes, some toiletries, a few books, food and his iPod. He’d even remembered the lube. The boy shuddered against the icy breeze and his sighs blew white into the air, his hair damp with the rain he’d ran through, his flannel still wet as well. Skinny pale fingers shakily lifted a cigarette to purpling lips, Ian’s tongue flicking out to taste the smoke._

_Ian began to grow impatient, checking his watch with a frustrated huff. Mickey was nearly 40 minutes late. It was normal though, but then again today’s meeting was far from a normal arrangement. He honestly thought Mickey would have made the effort to be on time, that is if he decided to come._

_There was always the possibility of him not coming, but Ian didn’t want to think like that._

_Eventually though, he had to face the reality of the situation._

_“After this cigarette,” Ian muttered to himself, “I’m leaving.”_

_It was fate visualized when Mickey’s footsteps echoed through the hollow space. Ian shot up to his feet, dropping his finished cigarette to the ground before twisting the toe of his shoe into it. Suddenly the freezing weather mattered not, because nothing could beat watching Mickey emerge up the stairs with a backpack and tote bag._

_“Mickey... I,” Ian began, his voice hitching into a nervous, but relieved laughter. “I-I didn’t think you’d show.”_

_Mickey Milkovich stepped forward, tossing his bag onto the dusty floor. His face was still littered with thin red scars, evidence from Terry Milkovich’s assault only five days ago. The boy’s left eye had become greenish yellow where it used to be blackened purple. In another week or so, all of Mickey’s scars would be healed, except for the ones no one could see._

_“Gotta a smoke?” Mickey asked, his voice cracking a bit._

_“Yeah.” Ian fished for the smashed box of Newports and handed a cigarette over._

_“Thanks,” Mickey mutters, wedging the filter between his full lips. “Light?”_

_Pleasure and relief danced about in Ian’s heart as he leaned close and lit the boy’s cigarette, his gaze lingering on the hypnotizing orange flame that stuck onto the end of the cigarette as Mickey drew air through the filter._

_Mickey twisted his lips and exhaled to the left, away from Ian’s face. “So... California...”_

\--

Ian wakes up in the middle of the night, his back aching from the lumpy ground he lays on. He immediately looks over to the left, letting out a sigh of relief at seeing Mickey’s sleeping form still settled beside him. He reaches out and pulls the blanket over Mickey’s shoulder. 

He thought Mickey would have left by now.

It’s been three days of this, camping in the woods, as far away from people as possible. Mickey’s growing tired of it. Yesterday they had a fight that left Ian emotionally exhausted, and he could tell Mickey was left gutted by it as well. This really can’t go on too much longer. 

In the morning, when they both wake up, it’s obvious that a shower is in order. Ian’s not used to going more than a day without showering, but Mickey could probably go weeks without one and still be fine with that; Ian’s not keen on smelling Mickey’s sour balls or his musty armpits. 

They find a rest stop off the highway after walking aimlessly for miles. 

They take their clothes off and do the best they can with the cold sink water of the men’s bathroom. It’s not a shower, but it’s better than walking around in their own filth. 

“So what now?” Mickey asks when they step out into the parking lot of the rest stop. 

The question throws Ian for a moment because Mickey hadn’t really spoken to him all day. 

Ian shrugs, digging inside of his tote for a pack of cigarettes, only to find empty boxes. “Buying more cigarettes would be nice.” 

“I saw a cigarette vending machine inside the lobby,” Mickey says, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. 

“Really? I thought those were banned?” 

Mickey shrugs, “Not in Kansas.” 

Ian nods, pulling out their envelope of cash from his bag. “Here’s ten dollars. Get two if they have cheap ones.”  

Mickey takes the cash and gaits back into the lobby. Ian sighs as he stuffs the envelope back into his bag, propping the tote behind him so that he can use it to lean against. The air is dry today. He really could use a drink, a nice ice cold Corona with a lemon slice stuck in the neck of the bottle. A juicy burger wouldn’t be so bad right about now either. They’d spent the last few days eating snack foods, rationing them out. They’re running low though, so the pair will have to think of something soon. Besides, living out in the wilderness is not what Ian had in mind when he convinced Mickey to run away with him. 

The redhead closes his eyes and fantasizes about the California apartment again, just so he can remember why they’re doing this. He pictures coming home from work, dead tired, but still alive enough to start dinner before Mickey gets home. He pulls out his iPad or some other expensive device he can’t afford right now and goes online to find a recipe for that night’s dinner. Maybe something vegan, just to change it up. No, he’ll do something with chicken - Mickey hates seitan and tofu. They’d have a cabinet full of spices instead of the standard salt, pepper and garlic powder variety. Maybe there’s fresh veggies and fruits awaiting him in the refrigerator. He’d slice up some honeydew, place it on the table in a big bowl from IKEA. He’d probably be in the middle of cooking when Mickey comes home, loudly announcing his return, of course. Mickey would come into the room and noisily place his tool box on the table and grab a piece of honeydew. He’d probably talk with his mouth full and would walk over and look over Ian’s shoulder and say, “What the hell is this?” Ian would roll his eyes, but he’ll smile and reply, “It’s chicken marsala.”  

Ian smiles at the thought, but his heart grows sick with sadness because California feels even further away now, and in many ways he senses that he’s losing Mickey. Something’s just _gotta_ happen!  

“Everything alright?” comes a rough male voice, Kansas accent and all. 

Ian’s eyes shoot open and there’s man standing above him with a red plaid shirt on with the arms cut off. Tight, faded blue jeans hug the overweight man’s legs, belted with leather and a big silver oval belt buckle with the confederate flag situated in the middle. The man is most likely in his mid to late 40s - short salt and pepper hair covers most of his head, as well as grey stubble on his cheeks. 

Ian swallows, and nods. “Yeah, everything’s fine.” 

“Ya sure I can’t be of some service to ya?” The man’s blue eyes scan Ian, and it’s obvious that the appraising look has a shade of lust behind it. Ian’s known about the cruising culture of truckers at bus stops. Sometimes he forgets how young and twinky he is; he’s pretty much Megan Fox showing up in an all-male prison. 

Mickey comes out of the lobby with two packs of cigarettes in his hands and a scowl that sends Ian’s heart swelling with pride. 

Ian grins, and looks up at the man in front of him. “Actually... we sorta need some help.” 

\-- 

The trucker Ian manages to pick up is named Andy and despite his confederate flag buckle belt, the man seems awfully nice. He agrees to take them into the nearest town and doesn’t even ask for any favors, nor does he ask any questions about their past, which is a relief. Nonetheless, Ian feels obligated to give the man a handjob at least. He waits until they reach another bus stop and Mickey leaves to take a piss. It’s quick and easy, as he expects. He never would tell Mickey about it though, because they really don’t need to make a scene, especially when they’re counting on this man for a ride. 

Mickey doesn’t talk much for most of the way. He only opens his mouth to complain about Andy’s shit Country music. Mickey’s tight lipped attitude seems just fine with Andy because he’s so in love with Ian already that no one else matters. This is highly annoying for Mickey who makes a point to sigh and glare whenever Andy flirts with Ian and the younger boy responds with even more flirting. 

Ian commends Mickey though, because he knows that once before Mickey would probably start pummeling the man. He at least understands the fact that they need Andy and Ian’s simply compensating him for the favor.

As much as Ian hates to admit it, watching Mickey become so uncomfortable fills him up with a sick, crazy kind of joy. 

\--

It’s nearly 4 a.m. when they reach the next town. Andy slips his cell phone number into Ian’s back pocket, copping a feel as he does so, squeezing the boy’s firm butt cheek. Mickey notices, but grits his teeth and spits out a “thanks for the lift” just as they climb out of the rig and into the darkened city. 

Ian waves goodbye to Andy and is smiling from ear to ear at Mickey’s piss poor attitude, mostly because he knows he’s the cause of it. 

“You okay?” Ian decides to ask after the ten minutes of silence begins to wedge itself between them as they walk down a main street, trying to seem inconspicuous. 

“What did that pedophile trucker put in your pocket?” Mickey asks, stopping and blocking Ian’s path. 

Ian stops too, so surprised by Mickey’s reaction that he has to laugh a bit. “His number. Why?” 

Mickey cracks a slight smile of disbelief, shaking his head before pointing down at Ian’s jeans. “Give it here.” 

“Why should I?”

“Just give it to me!” 

Ian pulls the piece of paper out and hands it over, “Jesus, what’s the matter with you?” He knows the answer, but he wants Mickey to stay it outright, he wants the pleasure of hearing Mickey say, “I’m jealous.”  

Mickey rips up the note into tiny pieces and tosses them up into the air like confetti. “He’s a fucking creep.” The boy bends over and picks his tote bag up. “Come on, I’m fucking starving. There’s gotta be a diner around here somewhere.” 

Ian tries to scowl, but he only ends up feeling smug. A smile sneaks up on Ian’s lips and he follows behind, blissfully happy that Mickey Milkovich can still get jealous. 

\--

They find a 24 hour diner nearly a mile down with one waitress and one cook on hand. It doesn’t matter much though because aside from Ian and Mickey, there are only a few other customers. The diner is thankfully cooled with A/C and relatively clean. The two of them pick a window booth and immediately Ian flips open his menu. Their waitress strides over lazily, each step sliding across the floor painfully slow. She brings two cups of ice water and sets them down on the table carefully before whipping her long, yellow, straw-like hair over her shoulder. Her black t-shirt is dirty and greasy, and there are dandruff flakes peppering the woman’s shoulders. She pops gum in her mouth full of rotten teeth and grumpily asks the boys, “Whadda ya wan’?”

Ian swallows and tries to focus on the food and not the sad woman in front of him. He glances over and sees Mickey shuffling through the pages of the menu. Suddenly Ian remembers that Mickey can’t read. He bites his lip and his eyes shoot back down to his own menu. He’s been dying for a burger, so Ian orders a bacon cheeseburger with fries and a pickle on the side. The waitress scribbles his order down on a small notepad and swivels on her feet to Mickey, a quizzical expression on her face. Ian opens his mouth to save him, but Mickey seems to hold his own anyways.

“You serving breakfast right now?” Mickey asks, chewing on the stubby end of his thumbnail. He does that when he’s nervous. 

The waitress nods her head and sighs because she can already tell that Mickey’s order won’t be as quick as Ian’s. 

Mickey turns the menu over and points down to one of the pictures, “I want this one right here.” 

The woman leans over the table and peers at the photo. “Oh, we don’t do eggs benedict anymore.” 

“Then why do you still have the fuckin’ picture there?” 

She shrugs and purses her lips before leaning close and pointing inside the menu. “There’s a list of all our breakfast specials.” 

Mickey claps the menu shut, almost catching the woman’s finger. “Just get me some pancakes and sausage,” Mickey says bitterly. 

Their waitress snatches their menus away and glares at Mickey, rightfully so. 

Ian waits until the lady is out of earshot to ask, “Why are you always an asshole?” Ian reaches forward and takes a hearty gulp of his water. 

Mickey ignores the question, and takes a sip of his own water, flickering a salty look towards Ian that elicits a small chuckle from the redhead. 

Silence befalls them, but Ian doesn’t scramble to end it. He welcomes the quiet moment and instead eavesdrops on the waitress’s conversation with the black man that had just arrived. Ian makes a note of his skin color because he’d not seen a single black person since entering Kansas. They talk about the weather, the president (it becomes obvious that the waitress isn’t happy with Obama’s policies, but she refrains from stating so) and then the conversation shifts to the man’s daughter. Before long, their benign conversation dulls Ian to tears and his stomach growls with neglect, making it that much harder to focus. 

Eerily spot on with timing, Mickey cries out, “God, how long do we gotta wait for our food! I’m gonna be eating this table in a minute!”  

Ian chuckles and shakes his head in mild embarrassment when the entire room of four or five individuals turn to look at them. 

The waitress purses her lips, clearly annoyed with Mickey. “I’ll check on your food right now, sir,” she says loudly, turning around and pushing open the kitchen door. 

“You’re gonna get us kicked out,” Ian says, a smile plastered on his face because sometimes Mickey’s outrageous behavior tickles him. 

“Not before I get my god damn pancakes.” 

The waitress emerges from the kitchen with Ian’s burger and Mickey’s “god damn pancakes”. She places their food down on the table and doesn’t even offer an “Enjoy your meal.” She’s far too pissed off to even muster that. Ian opens his burger to make sure there’s no spit or semen. Once he’s sure there’s nothing to be afraid of, he sinks his teeth into the burger and lets out a moan. The burger is on the dry side, but he doesn’t care. It’s delicious and the bacon is just the way he likes it: slightly crispy with soft, fatty ends. 

Mickey complains about the pancakes being too doughy, but Ian points out the fact that he rushed them. He gets a classic Mickey-glare for that one. 

When they’re done eating, they stay seated for much longer than the waitress probably wants them to, but they’ve got no place to go. 

“I’m not sleeping outside again. No,” Mickey protests when Ian brings up the subject. 

“I know it sucks, but we need to save money.” 

“No, what we need is a bed to rest on and figure out this shit situation we’re in. How the fuck are we gonna get to California?” 

Ian sighs, reaching over the table for the condiments tray and fetching a packet of sugar to idly play with. “I think we just need to lay low for a bit until we get out of Kansas. We’ll get bus tickets in Colorado.” 

“Co-....Colorado? We’re going to Colorado now?” Mickey blurts out loudly, oblivious to the rest of the diner that stares at him.

“Keep it down!” Ian hisses, his gaze scanning the surroundings. The black man from before is staring at him and he smiles, nodding at Ian politely before turning away. 

“You need to fucking update me on where it is we’re going. Because so far this trip is bogus,” Mickey spits out bitterly, yanking out his cigarettes. “I’m going for a smoke. After we’re done, we’re leaving and we’re getting a motel, goddammit!” Mickey storms up from his seat and leaves. 

Ian can’t blame him for being upset really. He never expressed wanting to go to Colorado, and he honestly had the opportunity to do so when they had their fight yesterday; he was simply too afraid to say it then. Mickey had gone animal-like, screaming and carrying on as if he wanted to hit Ian, and admittedly Ian didn’t deal with the situation the best way possible...

_“I’m fucking sick of this Gallagher. We’re fucking starving!” Mickey bellowed, his voice echoing in the night air._

_Ian frantically scanned the area to check if anyone heard them, although he was certain they were alone. Only the easy flow of the nearby creek could be heard and Mickey’s heavy breathing._

_“We have food, Mickey. Eat,” Ian handed him a pack of peanut butter cracker sandwiches, but Mickey slapped it out of his hand, sending the snack food flying through the air._

_“That’s not food! How the fuck are we supposed to survive on peanut butter and crackers? Are you kidding me? I’m done with this stupid shit!” Mickey bolted up from his seated position on the ground and began packing his things up._

_Ian sighed, and stood up as well, easing forward. “Where will you go?”_

_“Home.”_

_“Home,” Ian repeated skeptically, “Back home to that sick bastard Terry?”_

_“At least I’ll have a bed to sleep in and food to eat,” Mickey replies, hooking his arms through his backpack’s arm straps._

_“So, you’d rather go home and probably be raped again, instead of trying this with me?” Ian’s voice cracked towards the end of the sentence because he knew he’d just said the wrong thing._

_Never say the ‘R’ word._

_Mickey turned around slowly and dropped the heavy tote bag he’d just picked up. “You know what, Gallagher? You’re really asking for it.”_

_Ian edged forward, anger making him brave and mean. “Asking for what exactly? A beatdown? Go ahead and beat me up then, maybe it’ll make you feel better since you seem to think all of this is my fault.”_

_“It IS your fault! We’re in the middle of buttfuck nowhere and we have NO plan! I’m starving and sleeping on the fucking ground, running from cops! We don’t even know if that shithead called them on us!”_

_“He definitely called the cops - you shot him, Mickey,” Ian said, but even he’s not fully convinced._

_“We haven’t seen anyone for miles. You got me out here doing this fucking Brokeback Mountain camping bullshit - I’m fucking done. You can stay here and live with the animals and sing and shit like Pocahontas, but I’m going back to Chicago.”_

_Ian was too angry, too full of everything but calm, so instead of swallowing his pride and manning up, he just childishly shouted, “Fine!” and watched Mickey walk out into the darkness of the woods. Ian flopped down to the ground and crossed his arms, certain that Mickey would return any second now. When twenty minutes passed, Ian’s heart was so ripped up that he had to get up and sprint after Mickey, on the brink of crying the entire way._

_He caught Mickey making his way back to camp. Ian quickly wipes away a few rogue tears - he wouldn’t dare let Mickey see him like that. Thankfully it was dark and the only light afforded to them was the pale moon above._

_“You came back,” Ian muttered when they spotted each other and stopped._

_Mickey shifted his feet a bit before continuing to walk forward and eventually past Ian without saying anything._

_That night, when they tucked in, Mickey said, “California isn’t happening, is it?”_

_A terrible, acid-like bubble caught in Ian’s throat because there was a lingering tone of disappointment in Mickey’s voice, one he’d never heard before._

_Ian shifted under his blanket and looked over to the back of Mickey’s head. He sighed, “It’ll happen if you let it.”_

_Mickey didn’t respond, so Ian turned his back to the other boy and tried his best to fall asleep without fearing waking up tomorrow all alone._

_\--_

Ian’s fingering through their money envelope for a crisp twenty dollar bill when the black man from before steps over to him and extends a hand. 

“Couldn’t help but overhear you two fighting over here. The name’s Kyle,” His voice is low and smooth, catching Ian off guard at how attractive it is. He’s obviously not from around here; his accent hints at a hometown from the midwest most likely. The man himself is not too shabby looking. He’s middle-aged, but has weathered well. Kyle’s a deep shade of mocha; dark, piercing eyes narrow at Ian, disarming him for a second. His muscles barely fit into the brown plaid shirt he wears, but he’s not a tall man. 

Ian smiles and shakes Kyle’s hand. “Ian.” _Shit!_ He forgot to use his fake name!

Kyle’s grip is firm and his hands are hardened with calluses. He’s either a factory worker or a guitarist. He rocks his broad shoulders from right to left, smiling; a bright pink tongue flickering out to wet his lips. 

“So, everything alright?” 

Ian presses his lips together and sighs before grabbing onto his empty cup. “Wish I could say it was, but... it’ll be alright.” 

Kyle furrows his eyebrows, “I heard you talking about going to Colorado... Aspen?” 

Ian nods, looking over his shoulder for Mickey, just in case. “Yeah..., well, no, we’re just passing through. Trying to get to California eventually though.” 

“Oh, California, cool. Whereabouts?” Kyle invites himself to Mickey’s seat and it feels dangerous, though Ian doesn’t say a word. 

“San Fran most likely.” The words stumble out awkwardly. Ian’s not completely comfortable talking to this stranger, but he seems nice enough.

“You two driving?” The man’s eyes glance in the direction of their bags propped up against the booth window. 

Ian stills himself, wondering how much he wants to reveal. He settles on being a bit vague, “Not exactly.”

Kyle nods, his gaze uncomfortably fixed on Ian. The boy squirms under the scrutiny - he’s typically unfazed by the attention of others, why does he care now?

“Well, you see, I’m on a road trip with my daughter. We’re going to Las Vegas.” 

“Oh? That’s cool. Where’s your daughter now?” 

Kyle cocks his head towards the window, “She’s asleep in the van. I have insomnia, so I’m up all the time. Needed a break from driving.” 

Ian nods his head politely and tries to figure out a way to escape the conversation.

“So,” Kyle leans forward, his gaze lowering a bit to Ian’s exposed neck before flashing back up to his face. “I could give you guys a lift as far as Las Vegas. That’ll put you really close.” 

“Wh-what? Really?” Ian stammers, obviously shocked by the offer. 

“Yup,” Kyle says, nodding and grinning. “You look like a good kid. Thought I’d offer.” 

And it’s a _good_ fucking offer, but something puts Ian off about the whole thing. Kyle seemingly catches the apprehension and swiftly adds more details, as if to comfort him. 

“My daughter is seventeen, looks to be around the same age as you. She could use some young people on the trip. She’s not really having all that much fun.” There’s a twinge of sadness that Ian catches and it’s enough to make him trust the man, at least for now. 

Ian taps his cup against the table and smiles, “We’ll have to tell my friend. He... it may take some convincing.” 

“Convincing?”

“Yeah, he’s not the type to trust complete strangers.” 

“And you are?” the question is so laden with sexual energy that Ian pauses for a moment and slips a flirty grin to keep it from being awkward.

_Speak of the devil and she shall appear._

Mickey ducks back inside the diner, stuffing his cigarette box into his side pocket before giving Kyle a rude look. He comes up to the table and eyes Ian as if he’s gone and done something absolutely insane. His eyes are wide and his mouth is agape. “Who the fuck is that?” Mickey asks, pointing at Kyle, but not looking at him. 

“The name’s Kyle,” the man reaches out to shake Mickey’s hand, but the boy doesn’t accept it.

Milkovich finally turns to Kyle, “What do you want?”

“He’s taking us to Las Vegas,” Ian announces, grinning at the tension between the two. 

“Las Vegas?” 

“Yeah... Las Vegas,” Kyle retracts his hand and looks over to Ian. “Ian said you two are headed towards Cali. Thought I’d give you a lift.” 

“How much is it gonna cost?” Mickey asks, visibly relaxing a tad.

“It’s free, man,” Kyle laughs and it ticks Mickey off. 

“Nothing’s _ever_ free, man,” Mickey mocks him, turning back to Ian who’s on the brink of laughing. “What’s so funny, Gallagher?” 

Ian stares at Mickey and sees everything that he fell in love with. He shakes his head and reaches for the bags sitting next to him in the booth. “Get your shit and let’s go.” 

to be continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of my semester is coming up soon, so I'll have to focus more on my final project for one of my creative writing courses. So that means I may not be able to update as quickly, but I'll try to maintain my current speed of one update a week. Just wanted to give everyone a heads up! :)


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